Anger
by Linndechir
Summary: A series of unrelated scenes about Menzoberranyr drow males and the humiliating or painful situations they might have lived through in a city where males are considered to be inferior and worthless. Part Seven: Jarlaxle Baenre
1. Gromph Baenre

Disclaimer: Neither the characters nor the places in this story belong to me; and I don't make any money with this.

A/N: Thanks to my beta reader Chi. :-)

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**Part One: Gromph Baenre**

_"While there was no question that the priestesses had and would always have dominion over the city, his dominion over the Art was simply a small consolation - something that would warm Gromph's heart in his private_ _moments."_ - Annihilation

Gromph groaned with pain when he finally reached his quarters at Sorcere and closed the door behind him. He spoke the command word to activate the magical locks under his breath before he quickly pulled off his heavy robes. His back was sore and aching, and he could feel his blood flowing over the torn skin. His left shoulder was half numb from the poison of the snake whip, and he could hardly move his left arm.

He limped into his study and started to rummage in the drawers of his desk with his right hand. A relieved sigh escaped his lips when he found a small bottle with a particular rune on it: a powerful healing potion that would not only close his wounds, but also defeat the poison. Gromph opened it clumsily and poured the liquid immediately down his throat. A pleasant prickle filled his body when the potion took effect, and the mage sank into his cushioned chair.

His gaze fell on the big desk in front of him, a unique piece of furniture, completely made of dwarven bones. The desk of the Archmage of Menzoberranzan. Gromph was, as far as he knew, the youngest drow who had ever attained this prestigious station, being barely older than two centuries. He had risen as high as any drow male could rise in the matriarchal society of Menzoberranzan.

Gromph snorted and touched his left shoulder - the skin was again as smooth and flawless as ever, but it still hurt slightly. The pain reminded him of the very important lesson he had been forced to recall today: even the Archmage of Menzoberranzan was only a 'useless', disrespected male.

His sister Quenthel had demonstrated this to him thoroughly and painfully. The young mistress of Arach-Tinilith - the bitch was four decades younger than Gromph - had called her brother to her quarters an hour ago to give him an extensive scolding for a minor insolence he had allowed himself towards a female student. While the novice hadn't dared to answer the Archmage back, Quenthel had apparently heard of the incident and decided that it was a great opportunity to humiliate her brother.

Gromph had expected it to end there, but his calm and indifference towards her insults had angered Quenthel even more, and she had finally ordered him to do something nobody had requested from him for almost three decades: to strip off his robes and get down on his knees. He had hesitated for a second, wondering if he should kill the annoying brat then and there, but he knew that their mother wouldn't let him get away with killing her second daughter, an ambitious priestess who was already in Lolth's highest favour. Telling himself that a bit of pain wouldn't kill him and that obeying would spare him much trouble, he had swallowed his anger and kneeled, half-naked.

He couldn't remember that he had ever before got such a furious beating in his whole life - Quenthel had rarely laid hand on him, and although his eldest sister Triel had be as brutal and strict to him as any drow wean mother would be, she lacked Quenthel's furious temperament and her hatred for her brother. At some point, Gromph had wondered if Quenthel would kill him in her frenzy, and he had already tried to think of an emergency spell to save himself.

But she had eventually stopped, promised him to make him eat his own liver next time he was insolent to a female, and sent him away. He had been grateful that he hadn't seen anyone on the way back to his own quarters, for he doubted that he would have been able to hide his pain.

The eldest Baenre son sighed deeply, slowly moving his left hand when the pain in his shoulder lessened. His elation of the last weeks - since he had been appointed Archmage - was gone, and after a short period of almost naive hope that he had gained true power, he was thrown back into reality. Yes, he had attained the most influential position a male could hold in Menzoberranzan. He was a powerful wizard, more skilled than many of his fellow masters who were twice his age. He was intelligent, he was ruthless, he was everything a drow needed to be. He had all the qualities that made drow one of the most dangerous races in the Realms.

If he had been born a female, all of this would probably have earned him Lolth's highest favour. He would have killed Quenthel, and maybe even Triel, some time ago. He would probably be plotting right now to find a way to get rid of his mother and seize power over the First House.

If he had been born a female.

But as it was, due to some stupid whim of fate, he was a male. And even the Archmage of Menzoberranzan had to bow his head before a female, even if he could kill her with a flick of his wrist, even if he was more intelligent than her and her sisters all together, even if he was elderboy of the First House. He was still a male, and despite the privileges his position granted him, he would never get more than he had now.

Gromph sighed once again and buried his face in his hands, overcome with helplessness and despair. In this moment his only clear thought was that his work and his studies had been in vain, that he would always be some female's lackey, forced to suffer the beatings his hated sisters gave him. But when the pain in his body slowly vanished, Gromph realised that such pathetic self-pity was unbefitting for every drow, and especially for a Baenre.

Remembering who he was he straightened up again. Maybe the official Menzoberranyr hierarchy wouldn't allow him to rise higher, but that didn't mean that he couldn't extend his power more subtly ... And if that didn't work, there were still plenty other drow males to take his anger out on.

He wouldn't make it that easy for his sisters and his mother. He would make sure that House Baenre needed him, and sooner or later his sisters would have to show him at least a bit of respect. And if there would ever be an opportunity to get rid of one of them, he would happily seize it. He wouldn't try to suppress his anger, he would use it to fuel his ambition - and if his plans failed, he could still torment others who weren't strong enough to defend themselves.

Gromph smiled at the macabre beauty of it all, and the anger and hatred that filled his heart and mind suddenly hurt less. They were part of him, part of what he was. Part of drow nature, part of drow society.

The Archmage closed his eyes, concentrating to embrace his anger like a dear friend, or rather like a valuable ally. Only the weak were destroyed by it. The strong were made stronger. When he opened his eyes again, his distress had disappeared, his fears had been locked up in the most remote corner of his heart. He knew that when he would see Quenthel again on the next day, he would look at her with calm superiority, letting her know that she could not break him.


	2. Zaknafein Do'Urden

**Part Two: Zaknafein Do'Urden**_  
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_"Zak offered no resistance as Vierna and Maya tied him to the spider-shaped altar in the chapel. He watched Vierna mostly, seeing an edge of sympathy rimming her quiet eyes. She, too, might have been like him, but whatever hope he had for that possibility had been buried long ago under the relentless preaching of the Spider Queen." _- Homeland

Zaknafein Do'Urden stood in the audience hall of House Do'Urden's chapel, looking straight ahead. His posture was as proud as usual, his face calm, and his eyes gleamed in a unique mixture of confidence, insolence and bitterness. His looks and demeanour would have fooled everyone, for they hid his troubles and worries perfectly, showing nothing but the brazen, powerful Weapon Master and patron of the Tenth House.

Everyone, except the female on the adorned throne before him. The Matron Mother of House Do'Urden was as beautiful as ever, but the way she looked at him - more like a hungry predator than like a sentient being - disgusted Zaknafein so much that he couldn't enjoy the sight of her pretty face or her shapely body. Only years of exercise enabled him to keep his face straight and not show his revulsion. He hated Malice more passionately than any other priestess of Lolth, he hated her for the countless nights he had to spend in her bed, for the lewd games she played with him - games that were very pleasurable for her, but only painful for him.

Yet he could not allow himself to displease her now by being cocky or arrogant, for Malice was more than only his matron and lover: she was Vierna's mother, and Vierna was the reason Zaknafein was here, standing in this chapel of the goddess he loathed, seeking out a female he usually tried to avoid as much as possible.

Vierna was, as far as Zaknafein knew, his only child, and Malice's second daughter. The Weapon Master had always suspected that she was different when he had seen her as a small child: her eyes were calmer, and when she grew older and got her first instructions about Lolth's ways, she seemed to be less enthusiastic at the prospect of killing and torturing than not only her elder sister, the vicious Briza, but any other drow female Zaknafein had ever met. Vierna was special, she wasn't so easily corrupted by her education as most drow. Zaknafein had no way to find out if Vierna was really his daughter - Malice had other lovers who might have sired the child - but he_ knew _that she was. He had seen himself in the eyes of the young female that had been sent to him a year ago.

Like all females, Vierna had to learn how to use melee weapons, how to fight, and her instruction was - of course - bestowed upon the House's Weapon Master. She had spent almost twelve months with Zaknafein, leaving his quarters only to pray in the chapel and to sleep in her own room. During this time, Zaknafein had come to like the girl more and more: she was high-spirited and interested in what he taught her - unlike other females who just sneered at fighters - she did her best to meet his expectations, and she smiled at him when he nodded approvingly, as if his opinion truly mattered to her. She had even laughed once when he had made a sarcastic remark about Malice and Briza, and in this moment Zaknafein had been completely convinced that Vierna was his daughter. No other drow, least of all a noble female, would laugh if a male made fun of a high priestess. For the first time in his life, Zaknafein felt like had found someone who was like him, someone who could be a friend in this hostile world.

That was why he had to save Vierna from Malice, from the Academy, from Lolth. His daughter wouldn't be a fanatical priestess of the damned Spider Bitch if he could do anything to prevent it! They would destroy her, they would take her smile away, they would turn Vierna into a cruel, ruthless killing machine like the other drow. The mere thought of Vierna looking at him as disdainfully as Malice or Briza did, of Vierna calling him a worthless, stupid male and whipping him for one of his countless insolences made Zaknafein almost choke.

"Zaknafein!" Malice's angry voice cut through his thoughts, emphasised by a hiss from the snakes on her whip. The Weapon Master looked up at her, scolding himself quietly for his lack of attention. The Matron's tone showed clearly that she had already called his name before, and that she was anything but pleased by his silence.

"I beg your pardon, Matron. I was admiring the magnificence of the chapel," Zaknafein answered with a deep bow. It would have been an acceptable answer if it had come from another male, but from Zaknafein, who had never hidden his hatred for Lolth and her clergy, it seemed like pure sarcasm. He realised his mistake too late when he straightened up and saw the fury in Malice's eyes. He really had to concentrate more on her than on his bleak thoughts if he wanted to achieve anything. Fortunately for him, the Matron Mother was too curious to give him the beating he deserved. At least for the moment.

"You said you wanted to talk to me, alone, and I have given you the honour of this private audience. So don't waste my time!" she hissed, impatiently stroking the hilt of her whip. "What do you want?"

"I wanted to talk to you about Vierna, Matron. I do not think she belongs in Arach-Tinilith," he said in the most humble voice he could manage, trying his best to appear submissive. He failed miserably. Being humble and submissive was nothing Zaknafein was good at.

"Is that so?" Malice asked, now rather annoyed than angry. She knew that Vierna was Zaknafein's child, and she knew that he suspected it, too. The Weapon Master had often said to her that Vierna was special, that she held more potential than average drow children. He had said that she was an excellent student and that she might become a great fighter, while Briza, who taught her about the service to Lolth, complained that Vierna was sometimes distracted and lacked the right passion for her studies.

Zaknafein had been careful in the past, he hadn't started to argue with Malice, but just given small hints. He had mentioned Vierna only when Malice was in a good humour and pleased with him - when he had satisfied her in bed. But Malice seemed to ignore his remarks. Noble females always became clerics of the Spider Queen, it was a rule and a tradition, and a source of power for the House. Vierna's fate had been sealed from the moment of her birth. Malice would insist that Vierna would go to Arach-Tinilith in a month to become a priestess of Lolth.

This was Zaknafein's last chance to try and save his daughter, and only his fear to lose her had brought him here to face Malice's impatience, her anger and her whip.

"She is one of the best students I have ever had, maybe even the best. She is strong and quick, she wields her blades better than many seasoned warriors of the House."

"Of course she does, she's a female," Malice cut him short. Any sane male would have shut up by now, but Zaknafein wouldn't give up so easily.

"I have crossed blades with many females, and Vierna is more talented than any of them. She could become an extraordinary fighter; her talent would be wasted at Arach-Tinilith. Would a great warrior not serve House Do'Urden better than a mediocre priestess?" he argued, barely noticing that his voice had become again as loud and brash as usual. He was too angry, too desperate to hold himself back.

"The weakest priestess is still more useful than any fighter. Only a fool would have a female become a warrior. It's a lesser art better left to males," Malice snorted, slowly rising. The snakes hissed in anticipation when the priestess descended from the throne and went over to the Weapon Master. She looked him in the eyes and smiled, a cold smile that combined disdain and lust, cruelty and amusement.

"But Vierna -" Zaknafein started in a last attempt, although he already knew that his cause was lost. Malice didn't bother to interrupt him verbally this time, she just raised her whip and struck him across the face. She knew exactly why Zaknafein didn't want Vierna to become a priestess - his contempt for Lolth was no secret, and Malice decided that her patron maybe needed to be reminded of his place once again.

Zaknafein stumbled back and almost reached for his swords on pure instinct, but he restrained himself in the last second. To raise a weapon against a female, especially against a Matron Mother, would cost even him his life, no matter how useful he was. The next blows threw him on the ground, and he already felt the sting of teeth on his hands and his face, and the painful burn of the snakes' poison.

Zaknafein had, like every drow male, always been repressed and beaten in his life, but he had never felt so hopeless and at the same time furious as in this moment. It wasn't the beating, as painful as it was, that made him so angry, nor the prospect that Malice would probably heal him afterwards to take him to her bed and continue to play with him. It was the knowledge that he would lose the only person who was like him, who might have been his friend and confidant, that drove him almost mad with anger.

Writhing on the polished floor of the chapel under the relentless blows of the whip, Zaknafein could only think of Vierna's honest smile when they had been training, a smile he would never see again. Zaknafein was once again alone, and he knew that he would remain alone for the rest of his miserable existence.


	3. Uthegental del'Armgo

**Part Three: Uthegental del'Armgo**

_"It was common knowledge in Menzoberranzan that Uthegental, in addition to being patron to Matron Mother Mez'Barris, was the consort of many Barrison del'Armgo females. The second house considered him breeding stock."_ - Siege of Darkness

"You aren't tired, are you?"

A deceivingly soft voice, purring in his ear while slender hands caressed his chest. Uthegental opened his eyes again to look up to the female sitting on him, naked and with a lewd grin on her lips. For his life he couldn't remember her name right now, but he doubted that she would care even if she knew that.

The Weapon Master of the Second House tried to shift a bit, to take some strain from his shoulders: his wrists had been bound to the bedposts for quite some time now, and his arms were consequently twisted in a rather unnatural way. Yet he was almost thankful for being tied up - at least he wasn't expected to do anything this way.

"Of course not, Mistress," he answered obediently, his voice flat and only half-heartedly covering his lie. As if she would leave him alone if he admitted how tired he was. After spending the whole day training the house's warriors he had been called to his Matron's quarters in the evening, and when she had finally released him - Uthegental had already been looking forward to a night all alone in his own bed - this other priestess had ordered him to her. Tired was an understatement to describe how Uthegental felt; he was completely exhausted.

The female said something Uthegental didn't quite get, but it hadn't been a question or order, and thus it was of no consequence for him. He concentrated on staying awake while those fingers didn't cease to touch him, caressing, scratching, pinching.

Uthegental tried to remember the last time he had actually enjoyed lying with a female. As a young drow, he had liked the females' attention. House Barrison del'Armgo had been virtually breeding drow for centuries, mixing even some human blood into their stock, and huge, strong Uthegental had been the perfect result of this project. Getting to sleep with the house's most beautiful females had definitely appealed to the young fighter, and he had been more than a bit flattered when Matron Mez'Barris had first chosen him as her favourite lover, then appointed him Weapon Master, and finally even patron - although she hadn't kept a patron for decades.

Yes, Uthegental had been proud, he had enjoyed his duties, all the more as most females were rather gentle with him - by drow standards, of course. Nobody wanted to damage their most precious stud. That they saw hardly more than a useful animal in him had never bothered Uthegental - all drow males were regarded as inferior beings, and his value made his position relatively secure. The only thing he had to do was to keep an eye on his sons and make sure that none of them became as formidable as him.

Uthegental almost laughed bitterly at these memories. Back then, he had imagined that his whole life would be that pleasant, but he hadn't realised that he would lose every pleasure in this routine soon enough. While being the Matron's favourite had countless advantages, it also obliged him to spend some time with her almost every evening as she apparently couldn't get enough of him. Pleasing several other females in addition to that - and Mez'Barris readily shared her valuable patron with the house's other priestesses and even common soldiers - was in the long run too much for even the greatest stamina, especially in combination with his duties as Weapon Master.

He had done well, of course, knowing that Mez'Barris would get rid of him as soon as he lost his usefulness, but the price for his secure and quite powerful station had been high. While other drow males might envy him, Uthegental's greatest dream was to spend one week, or even one single day all alone, without any female he had to bed.

A slap in his face interrupted his thoughts, followed by an insult and a harsh, brutal kiss. Remembering his duties, Uthegental replied as passionately as he could in his current state, hoping that the priestess wouldn't expect more from him. Again he forced his mind to disconnect from his body, trying to think of something more pleasant while his lower body obediently reacted to the priestess's touches.

Bucking his hips up as if he was truly aroused, Uthegental hoped that he would get some sleep once the female was finished with him. It was no wonder that so many drow in Menzoberranzan thought him exceptionally dumb while he was of rather average intelligence - he was simply so tired most of the time that it took him a bit longer to understand things. Fortunately, his weariness didn't affect his reflexes and his fighting prowess, or he would have been in serious trouble.

A sigh escaped his lips when a loud moan told him that the female was apparently finished with him. She slid off his body, taking some time to compose herself before she undid the chains, ordering curtly, "Get out."

Without even taking the time to stretch his sore muscles the Weapon Master got up and dressed, not bothering to put his armour on. He had left the room after hardly a minute, hurrying to his own quarters, hoping desperately that nobody would see him, not only because he would look quite ridiculous - a patron scurrying through his own house like an intruder - but rather because he didn't want to get caught by another female.

Waves of relief washed over him when he finally closed the door of his own room behind him. He sank on his bed, deciding that a bath would have to wait until the morning, and crawled under the soft blankets. He swore that any female who entered his room tonight would die, priestess or not priestess. Yet Uthegental was even too exhausted to ponder on those beautiful images, and reverie had claimed him only moments after his head had touched the pillow.

He dreamt of a world without females.


	4. Rizzen Do'Urden

A/N: Malice refers in this chapter to the events described in A little reminder, a one-shot about Zaknafein and Rizzen I wrote some time ago. But I think it's not absolutely necessary to read that one-shot to understand this scene.

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Part Four: Rizzen Do'Urden 

_"I am your patron!" he heard Rizzen say.  
"That's of no consequence!" retorted a female voice, the voice of Briza. [... Briza and Rizzen faced off, Rizzen unarmed, but Briza holding her snake-headed whip.  
"Patron," Briza laughed, "a meaningless title. You are a male lending your seed to the matron, and of no more importance."  
[... Rizzen's next words came out as an indecipherable scream as the six-headed whip went to work again and again. _- Homeland

Rizzen tried to shift a bit, but he was not able to find a position that was even halfway comfortable. His wrists were chained to the wall, so high above his head that he couldn't stand properly - only his toes touched the ground. He doubted that he had been here for more than twenty minutes, but the strain in his shoulders was already unbearable. Actually, the strain in his whole body was unbearable. He had no idea how he was supposed to stay like this for the rest of the night.

He winced and shifted again, hoping desperately to ease the pain. When he heard a chuckle behind him, he froze and grew stiff. Malice had left him here after chaining him to the wall, and he had been so focused on his pain that he hadn't heard her come back. Or maybe she hadn't even left the room and just watched him the whole time - Rizzen couldn't be sure, as his field of vision was very limited.

"Pathetic," the high priestess snarled. She sauntered through the room and stopped beside him, her lips close to his ear. "You're already wincing and whining, and the fun hasn't even started yet. It surprises me every time how weak you are, even weaker than other males."

Rizzen bit down on his bottom lip and tried to restrain himself, but he couldn't suppress his trembling. He could feel Malice's breath on his face, and hear the hissing of her snake whip. And he knew all too well that Malice was cruel, even by drow standards.

"Zaknafein never flinched until I started beating him. And even then it always took me a while to make him whimper. Of course, he always screamed in the end, like every useless male, but he was at least a bit challenging," she continued, her voice as nonchalant as if she was talking about the most normal thing in the world. Considering how males were treated in Menzoberranzan, it probably _was_ the most normal thing.

"But you, Rizzen, my pretty little patron, you already start to beg before the first stroke. And as if that wasn't enough, you are also a sorry excuse for a lover. Tying you up has only advantages - you don't know what do to with your hands anyway. Nor with your tongue."

Her fingers were slowly trailing over Rizzen's exposed body, tracing the red welts on his back, before they started to caress his thighs, almost tenderly and immediately drawing a moan from him. Malice just chuckled and dug her long fingernails into the soft flesh.

"You should really wonder why I made you my patron. You're not even half as pretty as Zaknafein or a few other males of this house, your body is nothing compared to a warrior's, and you don't even make up for it with great skill. Do you want to know why I did it?"

"Yes, mistress," Rizzen answered obediently, although he didn't have the slightest desire to hear anything about this. Actually, he wished Malice would just shut up and beat him, that was easier to bear than her insults. He knew that they weren't true - she had always been highly pleased with him - but that did not make it less painful to hear them.

"I wanted to humiliate him, my cocky Weapon Master. And what better way to remind him of his place than to replace him with someone as pathetic as you?" she drawled, rubbing her scantily clad body against his sore back. "I am sure he was very angry about my decision. But you know that better than I, don't you?"

Her voice sounded almost innocent - as innocent as she could manage - but she pressed roughly against the wounds on his back and the bruises on his hips. For once, these marks had not been made by her or another female, but by a male.

Rizzen's eyes widened in shock - how could she know? It had been bad enough to be abused by Zaknafein on the previous day, just after he had been appointed patron, but Rizzen had hoped that it would at least remain a secret. Had Zaknafein told Malice? Or had she simply spied on them, maybe even watched the whole scene?

"He's quite ... well endowed, don't you think?" Malice continued in the same calm tone, while her fingers slid between Rizzen's legs. "In comparison to you, I mean."

The young mage could hardly hold back his tears. He had thought that he had already known every kind of humiliation in his life - being a rather pretty male, no matter what Malice said to taunt him, females had always shown great interest in him. And after getting raped by his greatest rival, Rizzen had thought that things couldn't possibly get worse. How wrong he had been.

"Tell me, did you satisfy him?" she asked, taking a step back to look at him.

Rizzen just stuttered something barely audible, before he cried out when the whip cracked down on his back.

"Answer!" Malice bellowed.

"I think so, Mistress," Rizzen whimpered. Zaknafein was a sick bastard with a clear preference for pretty males, so of course he had enjoyed it.

"So you're at least able to fulfil a male's needs, if you're incapable to satisfy a female," she taunted him. "Maybe you even enjoyed it, didn't you? Say it."

What bit of pride he had left screamed in him, but Rizzen knew very well how Malice would react if he dared to object. There was no point in trying to resist, she would _make_ him say it anyway.

"Yes, mistress, I enjoyed it," he mumbled, but another blow made him repeat his words in a louder voice.

"I thought so," Malice almost purred, watching in fascination how the snake bites on his back were already swelling. "You will be happy to hear then that you'll get to spend more time with him soon. You will go to him tomorrow and offer yourself to him. I'm sure both of you will like that."

"Thank you, mistress," Rizzen managed to whimper. Unlike Zaknafein, he had no desire to provoke Malice and make her only more violent. The idea of offering Zaknafein what the Weapon Master had taken so violently made Rizzen sick. He remembered the pain und humiliation of this act only too well, and for once he almost welcomed the following blows of the whip. Malice had finally fallen silent, and the burning on his back, rear and legs, and whatever other tortures she would think of this night, at least distracted him from the thought of facing Zaknafein and his arrogant, smug grin.


	5. Berg'inyon Baenre

**Part Five: Berg'inyon Baenre**

_"What are you doing up here?" Berginyon asked. "And how did you appropriate the mount without my permission?"  
__Dantrag scoffed at the question. "Appropriate?" he replied. "I am the weapon master of House Baenre. I took the lizard, and needed no permission from Berginyon."  
__The younger Baenre stared with red-glowing eyes, but said nothing more.  
__"You forget who trained you, my brother," Dantrag remarked quietly.  
__The statement was true; Berginyon would never forget, could never forget, that Dantrag had been his mentor._ - Starless Night

Berg'inyon was deeply worried - and for a good reason. Students at the Academy, even the nobles, almost never returned to their House during the years of their instruction: it was considered unnecessary by the matrons and disapproved of by the teachers. Therefore the young fighter had been almost frightened when a messenger had come to him this evening after his training and told him to go to House Baenre immediately - and not to his mother's throne room, but to the cellar.

Two days after the beginning of the new year, after his defeat at the hands of Drizzt Do'Urden and his loss of the first place in the class ranking, this couldn't be a coincidence. Berginyon knew that House Baenre was not amused - Dantrag's hateful glares during the past two days had shown this clearly. It couldn't be Dantrag who had ordered him here, though, the Weapon Master would have taken care of him at Melee Magthere. But the young fighter hadn't expected his mother and the other priestesses to react immediately.

It took Berg'inyon all of his courage and self-discipline to keep going - would he get a second chance, or would his family get rid of him to erase his failure? But why would they make him come here? Dantrag could have punished or killed him just as well.

The minotaur guards in House Baenre's basement let him pass and mentioned for one of the doors. One of them grunted, "Mistress Bladen'Kerst is waiting."

Berg'inyon swallowed - Bladen'Kerst had been his wean mother, and she was the most sadistic of his sisters, with the exception of Vendes, of course. He would even have preferred to face his mother herself than Bladen'Kerst. He took a deep breath before he opened the door and stepped into the room, closing it quickly - whatever his sister had in store for him shouldn't be witnessed by servants.

The young drow took a quick look-around - he was in one of the cleaner cells, used for valuable prisoners, and for the punishment of males. Bladen'Kerst stood in the centre of the room, a vicious-looking bullwhip in her hand - the snake whip hang on her belt. A drow male was kneeling close to the wall, his wrists chained above his head, his back wounded by countless lashes. His muscular body clearly identified him as a fighter, but his long hair hid his face, so Berg'inyon couldn't recognise him. He presumed that his sister had just enjoyed herself with some unfortunate soldier while she had been waiting.

But when Berg'inyon bowed deeply, he caught a glimpse at the fighter's gear, which was lying in a corner of the cell: finest chain mail, mithril bracers, two swords, on of them with a demon head hilt ... Berg'inyon gasped for breath - the trembling male was no less than Dantrag himself! He had never, ever seen his proud brother beaten, except for an occasional slap at Triel's or Quenthel's hand - the other priestesses respected and feared him too much to lay hand on him. And why wasn't Dantrag at the Academy, anyway?

"Strip and get down on your knees." Bladen'Kerst's hissing voice broke his confused contemplation. Knowing that his sister made up with cruelty what she lacked in intelligence and self-discipline Berg'inyon complied almost hastily. Stripped to his waist he kneeled beside his brother, lifting his arms when Bladen'Kerst stepped to him to chain him to the wall. Dantrag looked up, his eyes gleaming with hatred - for Berg'inyon, not for their sister.

"Useless filth!" the priestess snarled suddenly once she had securely chained her youngest brother. "How is it possible that this pathetic brat of the Ninth House beat you? Have you learnt nothing, you weakling? You are unworthy of the name Baenre!"

Berg'inyon bit on his bottom lip, but he still cried out when the whip came down on his exposed back. He tried to count the lashes - he had always found that this exercise of concentration made the beatings more bearable - but he lost count quickly, unable to shut out the endless stream of curses and insults his sister spat at him. Berg'inyon wondered for a moment if he had ever realised how many words their language knew for inferior creatures - like males.

He sighed in relief when Bladen'Kerst suddenly stopped to hit him and turned her attention back to Dantrag - he doubted that he would have survived even one more lash. Still, he saw through a veil of pain how Bladen'Kerst delivered another few furious strokes on Dantrag's already battered shoulders and back before she suddenly released him.

She scowled in disgust when Dantrag almost slumped to the ground, too weak to keep his balance without the chains that had held him up so far. However, he managed to scramble on his feet in an almost supernatural effort, each movement accompanied by a pained groan. A faint, cold smile appeared on Bladen'Kerst lips.

"Maybe you're not completely useless, after all," she snarled. She laid a soft hand on Dantrag's shoulder and whispered a prayer, healing the grievous wounds completely. "You may proceed with this scum however you like, but let him live. I will send a priestess in the morning to heal him before you return both to the Academy."

After a short moment of hesitation she healed part of Berg'inyon's wounds as well.

"I wouldn't want him to die as soon as you touch him," she chuckled, but when Dantrag answered with a grin just as vicious, she struck out at him, slapping him in the face before she rammed her knee in his groin. She watched with malicious glee how the Weapon Master bent over, almost toppling down, before she left without another word.

Dantrag needed a few moments to get a hold on himself, but then he picked up the bullwhip his sister had left. Berg'inyon couldn't see him, but he knew his brother and tutor well enough to imagine the cruel gleam in the older male's eyes. Dantrag, especially when he was angry, was at least as violent as most priestesses. Berg'inyon had been trained by Dantrag, and he had spent these years in almost constant pain.

The Weapon Master didn't proceed immediately, probably because he was still quite sore himself. He took his time to put on his boots before he finally turned towards his brother. He grabbed Berg'inyon's chin and forced it upwards, staring his brother in the eyes.

"I am sure even you can understand why our Matron ordered me here as well," he said in a dangerously low voice. He weighed the heavy whip in his free hand, obviously eager to strike out. "They think that I have failed to train you properly if that little Do'Urden bastard can defeat you. They say if he is better than you, then Zaknafein must be better than I am. They mock me, at the Academy - not openly, of course, but I can see the doubt in their eyes. They really believe that this filthy commoner, this son of a whore who isn't worth the dust on my boots, could beat me. And you know, little brother, that I do not take insults lightly."

The last word was emphasised by a vicious lash on Berg'inyon's already injured back. He groaned - his brother wielded the whip almost as skilfully as Bladen'Kerst. He didn't use it as a weapon, like his rival Zaknafein, but every single student of his had already tasted its bite.

Yet Dantrag had obviously other plans this time. He put the whip almost tenderly around his brother's neck, slowly starting to suffocate him, stopping every now and then to let him gasp for breath before he resumed his strangling. Soon enough Berg'inyon was trembling and gagging, his eyes wide in pain and fear. But however delicate and entertaining this torture was, it wasn't enough for Dantrag to live out his burning anger.

With an almost bestial snarl - it reminded Berg'inyon of a wounded animal - the Weapon Master let the whip fall and undid the heavy chains, sneering when Berg'inyon fell on the floor. Dantrag had obviously forgotten about the fact that he had been in the same humiliating position only minutes ago.

He didn't give him enough time to stand up but kicked him in the side before he grabbed a handful of sweaty hair to jerk him on his feet. Not holding himself even slightly back he smashed him against the next wall. Dantrag hit him again and again, revelling in his brother's groans and whimpers, in the sight and the smell of blood and pain. It made him forgot his own pain, his own humiliation, the all too vivid memory of Bladen'Kerst's never ending lashes on his back.

It was Berg'inyon's fault, after all, if he was weak - a Baenre was always better than some misfit from a lower House, and if he failed, he didn't deserve anything better than this. Berg'inyon's failure had caused Dantrag's punishment, so it was only fair that he should pay for it.

Dantrag hardly thought about any of this while his fists collided again and again with Berg'inyon's face and body. It was normal. It was the way of the drow.

When Berg'inyon was finally released he sank onto the floor, too broken to be relieved that his brother had stopped and left now. His whole world was composed of nothing but pain and anger and hatred - for Do'Urden, for Bladen'Kerst, for Dantrag. He hated his brother, and yet he knew that he would have done the same thing.

Even in his current state Berg'inyon found a small consolation in the prospect of letting his anger out on one of his classmates at the Academy. Writhing on the floor in his own blood, he tried to imagine that it was someone else who lay here in his place - someone _he_ had brought there.


	6. Dinin Do'Urden

**Part Six: Dinin Do'Urden**

_"Come, my husband," Malice said to Rizzen. "Take your blade and mark your dead rival's face. It will feel good to you, and it will inspire terror in Drizzt when he looks upon his old mentor!"  
__... Rizzen put a hand to his sword, looking back to Malice one final time for confirmation. Malice nodded. With a snarl, Rizzen brought his sword out of its sheath and thrust it at Zaknafein's face. But it never got close.  
__Quicker than the others could follow, the spirit-wraith exploded into motion. ... Before the doomed patron of House Do'Urden could even speak a word of protest, one of Zaknafein's swords crossed over his throat and the other plunged deep into his heart. Rizzen was dead before he hit the floor. ...  
__"That one bores me," Malice explained to the disbelieving stares of her children. "I have another patron already selected from among the commoners."_ - Exile

Dinin left the chapel as quickly as possible without breaking into a run. He had held himself back for eight hours, since he had seen the spirit-wraith cut down his father. He had been the first of Malice's children to speak after Rizzen's death, coldly expressing admiration for Zaknafein's quickness and skill - because he knew that every silence, every expression of shock and pain would have been suspicious.

His face had remained blank after the first gasp of surprise when Rizzen had fallen down, his body virtually cut into pieces by the wraith's swords. When Matron Malice had ordered Dinin to take Zaknafein out into the Underdark, he had protested weakly - apparently out of fear of him, when he had really just wanted to be alone.

Malice had ignored his objections, of course, and Dinin had had no choice but to accompany Zaknafein to the region where he had last seen Drizzt. He had then hurried back to House Do'Urden, reported to Matron Malice and hoped now that he could finally return to his room.

He didn't even make it out of the chapel's anteroom. A mockingly soft voice stopped him, calling out his name. Dinin turned around to see Maya slowly sauntering towards him. He should probably be grateful that it wasn't Briza, but he knew that Maya, while she couldn't match Briza's brute strength or Vierna's determination, could be quite malicious and dangerous. As the only one of his sisters who was younger than him she had always felt the need to put Dinin in his place, using each opportunity to humiliate him.

Dinin swallowed and lowered his eyes before he looked up at her again. Maya was his only full sibling, but she looked nothing like her father. She had always despised Rizzen, as if she was envious that her sire was less impressive than Vierna's.

"You seem upset," Maya stated with feigned surprise, her eyes narrowed. "Does it not fill you with joy that Lolth has given us this gift to hunt down your renegade brother?"

Dinin had to fight hard not to slap her in the face. Maya knew how close Dinin and Rizzen had been - as close as father and son could be among drow. Sometimes he wondered if her hatred for both her brother and her father was nothing but jealousy for Rizzen's attention.

"Of course it does," Dinin replied, and it wasn't even a lie. He, more than anyone else, wanted Drizzt dead. "I am just tired. If you allow, I would like to retire to my quarters."

Maya's lips curled into a smile - she looked exactly like her mother when she smiled like this; hardly a comforting resemblance.

"And what are you going to do there? Cry like a faerie over the loss of the worthless scum that sired you?" she hissed, grabbing a handful of hair to yank her brother closer, holding him tight while she stared him in the eyes. Dinin trembled with anger, at her words as much as at her assault, but he knew better than to attack a female or even to struggle.

"You're as pathetic as he was. I know that you spent almost every evening with him, that you _trusted_ him, _liked_ him." She spat out those words with exaggerated disgust. "That you _need_ him."

Dinin didn't answer, and he held her gaze only with difficulty. To his own dismay he had to admit that she was right. Rizzen had been the only one who had ever shown any real interest in him, when his mother and sisters had either ignored or scorned him. Rizzen had offered him some comfort and company during the years Dinin had spent under Zaknafein's tutelage, and their shared hatred for the Weapon Master had been one of the first things to bring them together. Rizzen had always been there; even during Dinin's years at the Academy - as student and later as teacher - he had always known that _someone _cared if he came back or not.

"And now? Who is going to clean your wounds and talk with you about whatever inanities you males talk about?" She gave him a rough push, and Dinin stumbled a few steps backward, relieved that Maya was less strong than her sisters.

"Maybe you will finally grow up now that he is dead, weakling," she hissed, getting so worked up that she didn't even realise that she wasn't making sense anymore. Dinin had certainly shortcomings, but being weak or childish were definitely not among them. Therefore he remained quite calm under Maya's insults.

"And get that cocky grin off your ugly face before I wipe it off!" Her words were stressed by an angry hiss from her snake whip and a vicious slap in the face. She glared at him for a few moments and turned on her heel to go back to the chapel.

Dinin let out a relieved sigh once she was out of sight and quickly rushed to his own quarters before anyone else could stop him. He locked the door behind himself, realising that his hands were shaking violently. He wasn't upset because of Maya's insults - they had become so banal that Dinin hardly ever listened to them - but because Rizzen's death gnawed at him.

Dinin had never minded the cold-blooded ambition and cruelty of drow society. He thrived in it - he had killed his brother to become elderboy, he had worked hard to become a master at the Academy, and if Zaknafein had only lived longer, Dinin was sure that he would have killed him - and Drizzt - as well, sooner or later. Dinin had embraced the madness of Menzoberranzan. He didn't _love_ it, it was simply the only life he knew and could imagine. But in all this beautiful chaos, he had been grateful for the one steady factor in his life, his father. And now that Rizzen was gone, Dinin felt like everything would crush down around him. It was almost as if Rizzen's death had only been the harbinger of some greater disaster.

Yet he knew that there was no point in hoping that Malice and her daughters would somehow pay for this. Rizzen had only been a male, and nobody cared about his death, just like nobody would care about Dinin's death on the day the priestesses decided to kill him on a whim.

Males were only tools and toys, fed, housed and tolerated as long as they were useful or entertaining, and as soon as the females found a better tool, as soon as they got tired of their toy, they would throw them away.

Dinin had known that this would happen sooner or later. He had known that one day, Malice would grow tired of Rizzen and kill him. Zaknafein had been the only patron she had simply stripped of his rank; and while Rizzen was a capable mage, he wasn't as irreplaceable as Zaknafein. The Weapon Master had been allowed to live on, and he had thrown his life away. Even without any other reason, this would have been enough for Dinin to hate him.

He softly ran his fingers along the armchair in a corner of his room, the chair Rizzen had usually sat on when he was here. Dinin knew he should be angry; he had been angry and cocky and aggressive for his whole life. But right now, he felt only sad and tired, as if the spirit-wraith's sword had not only plunged into Rizzen's heart, but also into his own. Yes, he had known that this would happen, but he had never been prepared for it. He had never expected it to happen _now_.

Too weary to take off his armour Dinin just sat down on the chair, drawing his legs close to his body and nuzzling his face against the cushioned backrest. Maybe it was only his imagination, but he was sure that he could smell the lingering scent of Rizzen's hair from the night before. He knew how pointless and frustrating it was to fantasise about killing his mother, but he couldn't refrain from imagining what it would be like to cut Malice down, to mutilate her just like Zaknafein had mutilated Rizzen. But even these images were only a small comfort that couldn't take away the well-known, rotten taste of helplessness.

Dinin woke up hours later, and his back twitched painfully when he straightened up. He felt calmer now, his desperation replaced by a strange feeling of emptiness. He got up and washed his face, flinching when he looked into the mirror. For a moment he felt like he was staring at his father: they had always looked alike, and the sad expression Dinin wore now resembled almost eerily the one Rizzen had worn most of his life. Dinin swallowed and quickly forced the usual mask of cocky indifference on his face, relieved to see the ghost in the mirror disappear.

He knew that he wouldn't forget Rizzen overnight, but he was confident that he would get used to being alone. He would survive and thrive, just like he had always done. He was Weapon Master of House Do'Urden, a position he had held since Zaknafein's death; he was strong, intelligent, he had everything a drow male could wish for.

But for the first time in his life it meant nothing to him.

* * *

A/N: Thanks to Ziggy who gave me the idea for this scene (i.e. how Dinin would react to Rizzen's death if they had had some kind of relationship). As I really like the idea I'm thinking about writing a longer story about Rizzen and Dinin. Some kind of companion piece to The Seduction of Innocence. I don't know if anyone would be interested in that. ;)


	7. Jarlaxle Baenre

**Part Seven: Jarlaxle Baenre**

_The inside of the mound was lighted, forcing Jarlaxle to pause and allow his eyes to shift back to the visible light spectrum. Dozens of female dark elves moved about, the silver-and-black Baenre uniforms tightly fitting their firm and alluring bodies. All eyes turned toward the newcomer - the leader of Bregan D'aerthe was considered a fine catch in Menzoberranzan - and the lewd way the females scrutinised him, hardly looking at his face at all, made Jarlaxle bite back a laugh. Some male dark elves resented such leers, but to Jarlaxle's thinking, these females' obvious hunger afforded him even more power. _- Starless Night

"I am quite pleased with your services."

Jarlaxle's smile widened and he dropped into a low bow, taking off his hat and sweeping it over the floor. His gaze didn't leave the Matron in front of him, not even when one of her daughters handed the second part of the payment to his lieutenant - the first part had been delivered when Jarlaxle had accepted the job.

They were standing in the chapel of the Fifteenth House, a house Bregan D'aerthe, Jarlaxle's newly founded but so far quite successful mercenary band, had worked for in the past few weeks. A spying job mostly, combined with a few well placed bribes and assassinations to ensure that the Matron's two eldest children would become teachers at Arach-Tinilith and Sorcere respectively next year.

Jarlaxle had given the job utmost priority - Matron Ssanana was rather young, but highly ambitious and intelligent. He knew that she would soon move on to more aggressive projects, and as her house's army was rather small she would need mercenaries. Jarlaxle wanted to make sure that, when the time came, she would choose Bregan D'aerthe.

"You have performed well," the priestess continued in her hard, almost unpleasant voice. "Better than I had expected from a rogue male." She paused and smiled slyly. "I think you earned a special payment, Jarlaxle," Ssanana drawled and chuckled.

The young mercenary leader swallowed. He knew that gaze too well: lewd, cruel, a promise of pain and pleasure, but with the pain being predominant. The look of a waiting predator rather than of a seductress. Jarlaxle had avoided priestesses since he had founded Bregan D'aerthe, carefully keeping every conversation on a business level, and none of his clients had ever asked for more than his professional services. Only once had a priestess become too interested in him. Jarlaxle had quickly sent a pretty soldier to take his place in her bed, and she hadn't objected to that.

Jarlaxle remembered his early experiences with priestesses all too well, and for the past decades he had mostly slept with males. But judging by the way Ssanana was looking at him, she wanted _him_, and she wouldn't settle with less.

Jarlaxle realised only now that his new fame - Bregan D'aerthe was already counted among the three most powerful mercenary bands of the city - also had disadvantages. He scolded himself because he hadn't seen this coming.

"You honour me, Mistress," he said and bowed again, his voice as smooth and charming as ever. His disturbing thoughts hadn't kept him from replying quickly enough to avoid arousing suspicion. "I would be delighted to put myself at your disposal, but unfortunately I have another client I cannot keep waiting. I am -"

"Do not forget your place, _male_!" Ssanana interrupted him violently and got up from her throne. The snakes on her whip were hissing angrily.

"Leave us," she snapped at her daughters and servants. Jarlaxle, although on the verge of panic, was at least sensible enough to send his men away as well. There was nothing they could do to help him in this situation, but he could prevent them from witnessing this. The other drow were gone within seconds, always quick to get away from an irate Matron Mother.

Jarlaxle was still smiling, but it was a strained smile now, and a humble one.

"I know my place, Matron Mother. I apologise if I have seemed impudent," he said, feeling almost sickened by his own words. Of course, he always shown the proper respect to his female clients, but so far none of them had forced him to grovel like this, not for the past decades.

She interrupted him again, this time with a slap, and as if an old, half-forgotten automatism had been reactivated, Jarlaxle dropped onto his knees.

"I doubt that. You can play the independent, cocky mercenary leader with your soldiers or with females who are stupid enough to be impressed with your insolent demeanour," she snarled and kicked his hat out of his hand before she pulled his eye-patch off and threw it aside. Jarlaxle had to struggle with himself to refrain from taking it back. Since had had acquired it thirty years ago _nobody_ had seen him without it! He felt naked and vulnerable.

"But _I_ won't accept this. You can swagger and boast all you want, I know what you are! Scum! A _male_! You have been a fine tool, and now you will be a fine toy - it's the only thing males are good for!"

Jarlaxle kept his eyes lowered, mainly to hide his anger. In a fair fight he could kill this arrogant bitch. If he wanted to he could start a fight, and win it, even now. But this was Menzoberranzan, and he was a male facing a high priestess of Lolth in her own temple. No matter how clever and powerful he was, here he was only a slave. He rose almost automatically when he was ordered to and followed her to her bedchambers.

He felt as if the past decades, all those hard years he had spent freeing himself and building his empire as a mercenary, were wiped out in these moments. All his work and determination to become an independent mercenary were destroyed by a few orders from a female who reduced him once again to an obedient, humiliated animal. A male like every other.

Somewhere in a remote corner of his brain Jarlaxle wondered where all his cockiness and superiority had suddenly disappeared to, for the priestesses didn't even have to threaten him to make him obey. He had thought he had forgotten and overcome his upbringing, but he realised now that he remembered very well what he had been taught in his youth, and he acted accordingly. A barked order from Ssanana was enough to make Jarlaxle take off his clothes.

His fingers were trembling when he removed his jewellery. When he had taken off the last ring, exposing himself to the Matron in all his unadorned beauty he already felt as if she had beaten every free will out of him, as if she had ripped him open and torn out his heart.

"Beautiful." Ssanana's voice somehow found its way through the haze of Jarlaxle's thoughts. "How pretty you are without that horrible outfit of yours. Do you put it on to make females think you're unattractive? To keep them from taking what is theirs? Well, as you see, your pathetic tricks don't work with me."

All the while her fingers had been exploring Jarlaxle's naked body, not tenderly, but as if she was examining him, like a tradesman assessing an animal's value.

"You need to be punished, and severely. You've been running wild for too long; a simple whipping won't be enough to ... _re-educate _you," she said while she was digging her fingernails into Jarlaxle's thighs, and her words were accompanied by an almost anticipating hiss from the snakes. "I love to beat insolent males into subservience. I love how even the cockiest male ends up whimpering and pleading for mercy, promising that he will spend the rest of his life as a willing little slave. Just like you will."

She licked over his cheek before she bit viciously into the tip of his ear. Jarlaxle let out of pained gasp, but he managed not to move.

"But that will have to wait a little bit, my pet. First you will put your mouth to better use than your annoying babble."

Ssanana stepped back and drew her whip, delivering two hard blows on Jarlaxle's shoulders that brought him down to his knees. He felt the numbing pain of the bites and the poison, of the cold hard floor under his knees. Jarlaxle closed his eyes for a moment when she opened her robe and let it slide to the ground. He didn't want to see that naked female body; it would only remind him of past experiences, and for once he was grateful that he had to keep his eyes lowered even when he opened them again.

Jarlaxle tensed up when he felt her strong hand in his neck, pulling him closer. The very idea of doing what she wanted from him disgusted him, but he knew that refusal would only make his punishment later that night worse. Shutting out every thought, every memory, everything that made him an independent person with his own feelings, he forced himself to be the whore she wanted. Closing his eyes again he leant forward and started to lick.

And this was only one of the less humiliating things that awaited him that night.

When Jarlaxle was allowed to leave her room and the mansion several hours later his whole body hurt. He was covered in wounds from her snake whip, normal leather whips, shackles, clips, hot wax and painfully long fingernails. She had raped him so often that he had lost count at some point. Jarlaxle was so exhausted that he was staggering rather than walking. His mind was completely numb, so weary that he didn't even feel relieved when he stepped out of the mansion and discovered that only his lieutenant was waiting for him, not the common soldiers.

The old mercenary gave him a an almost sympathetic look, at least understanding, and handed Jarlaxle a healing potion. It wasn't strong enough to heal all of his wounds, but it gave him the strength he needed to get to his head quarters on his own feet.

They didn't talk - no drow male, unless he was particularly ugly, hadn't had at least a few painful encounters with females. There was no need to talk about what had happened, they both knew. Jarlaxle knew he could count on his lieutenant's discretion. It wasn't a question of trust; the old mercenary knew simply that Jarlaxle was the highest asset their band had. Jarlaxle's death would stop Bregan D'aerthe's ascension, and therefore he could count, for the moment, on his band's loyalty. The lieutenant managed to get Jarlaxle into their head quarters and to his private rooms without too many curious soldiers seeing them. Then he sent for a slave and left his master.

As soon as the half-elf slave appeared Jarlaxle ordered him to prepare a bath. He stripped awkwardly, giving his blood-soaked silk shirt a sad glance. Completely naked he limped towards a locker and pulled out a strong healing potion, drinking it in one gulp. The pain disappeared within seconds, but that made the numbness in his heart even worse.

The slave returned with a basin of warm water and a soft cloth. With his eyes respectfully lowered he washed the blood off his master's body. Jarlaxle gave the young man a pensive look. He didn't mind slavery; it was too deeply rooted in his culture to appear unjust and condemnable to him, but he didn't want to become a slave himself. He didn't want to have that soulless, empty expression in his eyes, the hopeless pain he saw not only in the faces of slaves from other races, but also in those of many drow males.

When his body was washed clean from most of the sweat and blood Jarlaxle slowly walked into his private bathroom. Wincing, more from the memory than from real pain, he lowered himself into the steaming water and waved the slave away. As soon as the door was closed Jarlaxle's half-numb mind suddenly began to go haywire. He couldn't bring himself to relax and even started to tremble.

This couldn't be true! He was not like other males, he was special! He was Jarlaxle Baenre, the only noble of the First House who had escaped, at least to some extent, Matron Baenre's control. He was the leader of Bregan D'aerthe, a brazen individualist for whom normal rules didn't apply! He shouldn't have to be a priestess's whore like ordinary males!

Outrage, shame, anger coursed through his exhausted body. He wanted to cry and hide and at the same time to beat someone senseless. He felt so helpless.

But gradually, the hot water and the soothing scent of soap and oil calmed his overwrought nerves. He stopped trembling, and his breathing slowed once again down. His panicked mind returned to rationality, harnessing his uncontrolled emotions so they couldn't harm him anymore.

Jarlaxle leant back and made himself relax, trying to rationalise what had happened to him. And if he put aside all those humiliating details, it boiled down to a very simple fact: females desired him. And he realised suddenly that he had completely underestimated how useful a tool that could be. How easy would it be to manipulate a priestess who wanted him, who might make mistakes, or give concessions to get him into her bed in return. Of course, this would only be possible once he was powerful enough to refuse females. He had to learn how to turn his good looks into a tool and an advantage, to use them just like he used his cleverness and his charisma.

The idea calmed him down even more. As his power would grow he would be able to choose more and more freely, and he might even enjoy it every once in a while. He would simply be a mercenary who made profit of all his talents. It wouldn't be like being a Matron's patron or toy, like he had been tonight.

Jarlaxle spent the next two hours trying to convince himself that it _was_ different. He knew it was in so far as he would be able to keep up the appearances. But deep inside, in that private little corner of his mind which he kept carefully locked most of the time, he knew that his plan was nothing but a way of coping with the inevitable, of turning something he didn't want at least into something useful. Even with a bit more independence and freedom of choice, it would still mean that he was a male serving a female in bed.

Jarlaxle was a pragmatist - he would do it because it would afford him more power - but he knew that at least a part of his dream of independence had been shattered tonight. His refusal of drow customs, as he had to realise, did not mean that he was exempt from all drow rules. They worked differently for him - Jarlaxle would make sure of that - but they would always be there.


End file.
